


Regular people (made us who we were)

by another_Hero



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: F/M, Nothing Worse than Canon, and some discussion of married people having sex, there's a little mostly-vague drug use in chapter 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-03-30 03:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19033450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/another_Hero/pseuds/another_Hero
Summary: “John Rose,” he said, offering her a handshake, here at his party. He behaved like someone who wore a suit to work.“Moira Callahan.”





	1. 1980

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aelia_Gioia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelia_Gioia/gifts).



> Thanks for the prompt, [Aelia_Weasley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelia_Weasley)! The request:
> 
>  
> 
> _In the Girl's Night episode we heard a little bit about how Moira got Johnny's attention. I'd love a fic about their first meeting!_
> 
>  
> 
> You also requested a Gen fic, and this is Teen, so I wanted to let you know that the chapters of the fic that specifically fill your prompt are Gen (or anything in them that might not be is mentioned in the episode, like it takes place in a bar and there’s some non-specific discussion of hooking up with John Cougar Mellencamp in the corner). That’s chapters 1, 4, and 7. Chapters 3 and 6 are also quite Gen; 2 and 5 have (low-key, Teen-rated) vague drug use and mentions of sex. 
> 
> Thanks to [deathbysandblk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathbysandblk) for beta reading. (Any errors or things you don't like are on me, obviously.)

Making friends with Sharon had been worth the trouble, no question about that. If only Moira could get her makeup right, this would be the sort of party she’d imagined when she thought about New York. She’d never even been into the Carlyle before: when she’d first come here, she’d been sure that they would recognize her immediately as someone who didn’t belong, and she’d been right. And since then, well, she’d learned to live alongside that kind of glamour. But tonight she had a reason to go. She’d been invited.

Moira had been spending most of her nights out at the Mudd Club lately, hoping to catch a glimpse of Debbie Harry. And there were plenty of nights out; after all, the alternative was a night in. Partying at the Mudd Club, she basked in the self-assuredness of the punks and the artists who came out to be seen in all their strangeness. Twenty-six—twenty, if anyone asked—felt so horrifically _old_ to be where she was, never sure of the next job, living in an apartment with one bedroom and five other girls so that she waited until the buses all got back on their morning schedules before she even tried to make it home. She'd been in the city ten years, and while it was a thrill to find herself acting, the job was no more reliable than any of her others. Technically she could move out now, but there was nothing to say she wouldn't be crawling back in a few months. The way the people talked at the Mudd Club made her hunger feel glamorous, like if she was struggling, at least it might be worth something. Moira had never been especially drawn to _art for art’s sake_ , which seemed demanding, but it made her feel better, like going into a church did if she missed her aunt Mary, and no matter that since she came here she hadn’t given a single thought to God.

But as much as her usual nightly crowd might look down on it, Moira couldn’t say no to luxe. Someone had invited Sharon’s boyfriend to the bar at the Carlyle, and he had invited Sharon, and Sharon had invited her. Someone else, someone who knew the boyfriend, would buy Moira’s $10 cocktails. Sharon had laughed about it the way they’d always made fun of rich people, _He’s hosting a party at the Carlyle, can you even imagine_ , the sort of thing you said to remember that the absurdity of the wealthy was off-limits to you. But Moira was getting better and better at pretending she deserved that kind of access, the kind that followed from recognizable glamour. Moira had ended up at all sorts of fancy gatherings in New York, though after all of them she’d ended up in her room with the two abutting bunk beds. When she went to the Mudd Club and other real art scene events, she always kept her eye out for shifts in trend, a new look on someone else that might flatter her, a style falling out of favor; likewise, at upscale gatherings, she kept an eye out for looks she could mimic cheaply, hairstyles the other guests admired, mannerisms gaining prominence. The work had paid off, she knew it had. Tonight—and having finished applying her makeup, she looked it over critically, but it was perfect—she would look just like she belonged at Bemelmans.

There were enough coins in her handbag; she added tonight’s lipstick. It was two buses and a train to the Carlyle, where she would meet Sharon and go in together.

 

Sharon left her almost immediately. The boyfriend, whose name Moira hadn’t chosen to catch—Aaron or Eric, something with a vowel, she was pretty sure—was surrounded by friends, and he politely introduced one of them—Dan? Don?—to Moira before carting Sharon off to be displayed to the rest. Sharon would be engaged soon: the way she was dressed tonight, she had every intention of it.

Dennis traded securities, which was all Moira needed to know about him; she looked around. It was a small enough party that there was no question of who was hosting: the one with the eyebrows looked practically as though he belonged here, but he was keeping a paternal eye on everyone else, making sure their drinks were full, stepping in if anyone was alone too long. He wasn’t exactly gregarious, but he seemed to know everyone and to watch out for them. In a different world, he’d have made a good hostess. When Moira caught his eye, he offered a lift of those eyebrows and a faint smile, a look of nonrecognition but also of welcome.

She’d have gone to introduce herself—Duane would keep talking at the place where she’d been standing and remain none the wiser, probably—but another woman fit herself in beside the host before Moira could get up from the table.  Her clothes were all-black, like Moira’s, but they were clearly real silk velvet, and Moira could guess from three tables over that all the chains on her neck were proper gold. Still, no need to waste time here: Moira went to the bar for another martini on the man with the face, fished out a quarter for a tip, and surveyed.

She made eye contact with a few—she made eye contact with plenty—but no one made her want to hold it. When she noticed John Cougar Mellencamp, well. He looked all right, artist enough, but he wasn’t as handsome as you’d have thought from the fame. In a bigger space, she would have ignored him, but there weren’t enough strangers like her in their party, and it would be the funniest thing she could tell Sharon about this evening—you’ll never guess who I met in a dark corner. She maintained the casual look at him until he looked back, and—oh, that was the kind of _look_ that meant business, and she was in. He was more attractive when he made eye contact; it was harder to focus on everything else. Moira never responded to anything else like she did being wanted, and the want was plain. She didn’t put her drink down at first, but she figured Eyebrows could afford to buy her a new one later. So she walked up behind Mellencamp, put a finger on his back, and traced it slowly down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moira mentions [the Mudd Club](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mudd_Club) in Girls’ Night. It was open from 1978 to 1983 and was an Arty spot – Keith Haring art upstairs, Basquiat a regular. 
> 
> Bemelmans is the bar at the Carlyle Hotel, so, heckin’ fancy – and decorated with murals by Ludwig Bemelmans, of Madeline fame, in an art deco style otherwise. I imagine that Moira in her early days in New York would have thought of the Carlyle as the absolute height. $10 in 1981, the price Moira imagines for a cocktail, is almost $30 today; the most recent Bemelmans menu I found had the house cocktails at $21 and wine at $14-40 a glass, and I figured $10 was an amount Moira would think of as an extravagant, absurd price for a drink. 
> 
> Wikipedia tells me John Cougar Mellencamp has been “active” since 1976.
> 
> I’ve chosen, for the purposes of this fic, to take Moira at her word when she talks about her past (except her age in 1979—she says she was 17 and David immediately says she wasn’t, and O’Hara would have been around 25 then), whether that’s reasonable or not. So I’m accepting that she used to be a Competent, Functioning Person and that Johnny was with someone else when they met (rather than that being something she just said to make Alexis feel better). And I'm accepting that she moved to New York at 16 with her driving instructor, did some hand modeling, worked at "a charming gas station deli," etc, and started acting at 25, in 1979. I have her meeting Johnny in 1980, and per canon, they'll get together after a year, and David will be born in 1983.
> 
> The one conflict in canon that I've resolved by ignoring some of it is that Johnny somehow only had $2000 to start Rose Video, but he also had enough money to buy the drinks at a party nice enough to be colocated with John Cougar Mellencamp when he was famous enough to recognize on the night Moira met him (and when Moira says "then I met your father and suddenly I had people to do all those things for me" it definitely implies that he was well-off when they met if not soon after), and he couldn't likely have started Rose Video by then because it wasn't until the mid-80s (after David was born! he and Moira had for sure met!) that video rental really became a thing (VHS wasn't even released in the USA until 1977). But if Johnny had lost all his money before, you'd think we'd have heard about it. So Johnny is doing well when Moira meets him, and he hasn't started Rose Video yet, and he's working for someone else (he says when he goes to file for unemployment that he's worked for himself "all his life," but I'm figuring it's okay for that to just mean "over 30 years").


	2. 1997

Sunrise Bay always went dark for Christmas, and Moira looked forward to it and dreaded it in equal measure. She liked working: it had always made her feel valuable. And it always gave her something, even when she was at home, to call her away if she needed it. It ate up a lot of time, and it could be good to get a little rest, but she never doubted whether it was worth doing.

Then there was the actual holiday. John went to all extravagance at Christmas, even though he hadn’t celebrated it until they were together (“I never had an excuse”), and his greatest generosity was always for her. But the children became ravenous beasts at the holidays. She never denied them anything—she hadn’t worked her way out of poverty only to make her children play-act at it. She’d struggled plenty, and she didn’t see much value in any of the struggling. It wasn’t the years of work that brought her to a better life, it was the luck of finding a rich and generous husband. Moira didn’t believe in the building of character. But when she was at home, the children _wanted_ her. David was a teenager who probably should have grown out of it by now, and he acted like he had, but then he would make up excuses to come into her room, and then he’d start to _talk_ to her about completely unrelated things. Alexis was pulling away faster, but her love for attention from anyone had not yet grown to exclude her parents. They were charming for a few minutes, to be sure, but Moira would have a whole _week_ off. It was far too many minutes.

That was how she made her decision. It was important to guide John in the giving of gifts; it was important to give him plenty of advance notice, to reach him before he had an idea of his own.

So when John came to bed that night—after she had greeted him from on top of the covers in her white negligee, before she put down the script she was working on for tomorrow—she said, “You know what I want for Christmas?”

“Oh,” he said, joking, “you were hoping for a gift?”

“Not a gift,” she said. “I think we should go away, right after the Christmas party, just the two of us. I’ll have a few days before I need to get back to work.”

“Just us? Not the kids?”

“Oh, you know children, if they come they’ll want their mother.” The last time they’d gone on vacation with the children, they saw them multiple times a day. “We both work so hard, I’ve barely seen you.” John could hardly deny that. He’d like to spend a few days with her; he couldn’t deny that either, not the way he’d looked at her when he’d come into the room.

“Don’t you think we should wait until after Christmas morning? Stay here the night after the party, let the kids open presents?”

He didn’t say it unkindly, just like he was thinking it through, but Moira felt like she was being chastised. Of course she cared about her children. She just had so little time with her husband. Still, he loved Christmas. She could hardly refuse him.

“Of course, dear. We’ll leave in the afternoon.”

He smiled, slid up next to her, and took the script from her hands, careful to keep it on the same page. “It’ll be good to spend some time with you.”

“Oh,” she feigned surprise until she laughed, “will it? I could hardly tell.”

They were interrupted by a knock at the door, and John pulled away a polite fraction. “Yes?”

“Sir,” said Adelina. “Ma’am. I just wanted you to know that we caught Alexis trying to sneak out through her window.”

“Well,” said Moira, “follow her! One of you. We have to be certain she’s safe.”

John gaped at her. He shook his head and cleared it. “She’s back inside?” he said to Adelina, who nodded. “Thank you, Adelina.” And Adelina was gone.

“Follow her?” said John. “We’re letting Alexis run all over town?”

Yes, sure, thought Moira. Let her go, monitored. It would never do to try to keep her inside. It hadn’t worked for Moira’s parents.

But John looked horror-struck. “She’s eleven years old!”

“Exactly,” said Moira. “I was hitchhiking at eight.”

“In Los Angeles?”

“That’s why Adelina will send someone after her. Or go after her herself. It must be more interesting than sitting around here all day.”

“Adelina needs to sleep!”

 “Can’t she sleep when Alexis does?”

John shook his head.

“What?” Moira insisted. “I don’t know what—what I’m supposed to do. Isn’t it enough to send Adelina after her? She’s very capable. She’ll do much better than we would.”

John did this shrug-nod; it meant, _You’re not wrong_ , but he didn’t look happy about it.

“Our children,” said Moira, pressing what she thought might be her advantage, “are well-cared-for. What better way for them to face the world than with Adelina looking out for them?”

“You don’t think she’s too young?”

“Oh, she is, certainly. But she’ll be looked after, and she’ll realize how boring the middle of the night can be.”

John still looked skeptical. Worried, even.

“Wait too long,” Moira added, leaning in, “and she’s much more likely to learn how _interesting_ the middle of the night can be.”

John’s eyes went wide, _not_ the way she’d hoped for, and Moira realized that perhaps invoking their child was not the right way to come on to her husband. She changed course. “You and I,” she tried, “we’re going to have a whole string of nights at Christmas. No Adelina. No interruptions.”

“Any special requests?” John murmured against her mouth, and she’d gotten this night back on track after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Going dark” is the term for not filming in soap-opera land, according to a not-especially-reliable source I saw. 
> 
> Blockbuster was founded in 1985 and Hollywood Video in 1988, unless I have those backwards. Netflix was actually founded in 1997, though it sure didn’t enter my life for probably another decade after that. Anyway, we can figure a Blockbuster/Hollywood-like timeframe for Rose Video—Johnny started it in the few years after chapter 1, and it should have been doing well in the nineties. Netflix would go public in 2002; competition, especially from places with no late fees, would cause Blockbuster to decline sharply in value from 2003 to 2005, [according to Forbes](https://www.forbes.com/2010/05/18/blockbuster-netflix-coinstar-markets-bankruptcy-coinstar_slide.html#74cc43cf5464).


	3. 2018

When the offer came for the third Crows movie—not a good offer, Moira didn’t have to pretend, but a better one—when she had negotiated everything possible, when she had received her itinerary to Bosnia, coach, and shrieked with the joy of knowing she would be leaving this town, Moira had a lot to do. There was the script to evaluate, notes to make, revisions to be ready to propose. There was the wardrobe to curate, a plan to set in place for looking her best when all her clothes were years old. There was the town to inform, obliquitously enough that they would find out without Moira boasting. So it was a few days before she realized properly: she would be going to Bosnia, a place she had certainly never felt the need to visit before, in fact could hardly find on a map, and she would be going alone.

There had been a time, of course, when Moira had gone things alone. But it had been decades since she’d been so long away from John. And—though she would never question herself—it had been a few years since she'd found herself in novel circumstances. Learning to manage in Schitt’s Creek was indubitably excellent training for any unfamiliar situation, but though the children were of dubious assistance, she had relied on the generally-steady temperament of her husband. Once she was working, to be sure, she would slough off the anxieties of the outside world and devote herself to the effort. But in between here and there—

She was in the town hall, and she absolutely couldn’t be any longer. She took up her purse and waved a faux-apologetic goodbye to Robert and Veronica. It was always preferable to exit a room as though one had somewhere else tragically necessary to be. She walked—at a rushed but respectable pace; one was always on view in this town—to the motel, to the office, but no, Stevie was there and that wasn’t what she needed at all, to their room, but it was empty, back to the office. “Have you seen my husband?”

“He went to the café,” said Stevie, casually, with no sense at all of the gravity of this situation. And so Moira was forced to retrace her steps.

When she arrived, eventually, _finally_ , at the café, John was in the company of Roland, which was not the right company at all. She considered simply leaving. She tried to signal to John and step outside, but he didn’t follow her. She briefly considered returning indoors, but it was beyond her at the moment; instead, she walked back to the motel, fell onto the bed, and commenced a wait of indeterminate duration.

But John returned eventually, and he came to look for her, and even before the door had shut behind him, he was asking, “What’s wrong, Moira?”

“Come with me,” she said. “To Bosnia.” She said it into the pillow.

John sat down beside her head. “I can’t hear you,” he said.

She turned just her head to him. “I don’t know how to go to Bosnia,” she said. “Not alone. Come with me, John.”

He didn’t agree immediately, and that was when she should have known. “That’s—that would be very expensive, Moira.”

He had work. David and Alexis had work—did Alexis have work? Someone was working. It would be possible, if it were important. “It can’t be. Who would want to go to Bosnia but us?”

John put a hand on her head, but gently, because she was wearing Andréa, who didn’t like to be manhandled. “Moira,” he said, “you’re very capable. There would be nothing for me to do.”

“John!”

“Darling, you know how you ignore me when you’re at work.”

“Only while I’m working,” she protested. There were plenty of hours in the day. And she would have to find a way to fill them.

John smoothed his hands over her back again. “It’s a lot to do,” he said, “to leave Stevie. It’s hard for her to be alone here.”

Stephanie had been running the motel for years before they had ever arrived. She would be able to manage just fine. John was utterly failing to appreciate the extent of Moira’s struggle. Bosnia wasn’t a place people went—even if she had had friends to call, she wouldn’t have had friends to call there. He didn’t even care, probably, that they would be apart for days. —That wasn’t fair, Moira knew. He cared, but he was able to plan for it. And he was so unused to being apart, he hadn’t considered how she would suffer if she had to manage alone. She tilted her head toward his leg on the bed, moved close enough to touch. His arm had stopped moving over her back and rested, still, holding her in place. “Consider it,” she said. “I don’t—know how to be without you.”

John moved to lie down facing her, set a hand on her back again. “I know,” he said. “Me either.”


	4. 1980

Mellencamp wasn’t as good as he looked; Moira wondered whether she could make any use of that information. He was rough, in a way that mostly seemed like thoughtlessness, and she’d left when he took her wrists in his hands, before she found out where he meant to put them. She straightened her hair and reapplied her lipstick before she emerged, leaving him behind her to collect himself, and she went looking for Sharon.

But Sharon had availed herself of the bar, it appeared, more than Moira had, and she was contentedly ensconced with Odin, or Alan. Another drink, then; after all, a stranger was buying them, and without her even having to smile first.  

That stranger met her at the bar. “John Rose,” he said, offering her a handshake, here at his party. He behaved like someone who wore a suit to work.

“Moira Callahan.”

“It’s lovely to have you. You came with Sharon?”

“Yes, we’ve been friends for years.”

“Excellent, well, any friend of Sharon’s.” The bartender delivered her drink, and John showed her to his table.

“Hey, Johnny,” said the other man there, “I’m going to call it a night. Great party.”

“Thanks for coming,” said John—Johnny?—before he sat down. “See you Monday.”

“Johnny?” said Moira. “Is that what they call you?”

“You can call me Johnny if you’d like.”

“I like John,” said Moira, and she did: he was warm and polite, and he didn’t seem to mind an intruding stranger.

“I’m surprised we haven’t met before,” he said. “You say you’ve known Sharon for years?”

“Since she came to New York.” They’d known each other since _Moira_ came to New York, but that wasn’t a story she wanted to be asked about.

“So you’re an actress?”

“I am.” She liked being asked about her work, and more so since she started acting, which she was actually proud of. But Moira had been raised to value work for its own sake, even the drudgery she'd spent years on in the city. It gave her legitimacy in her mother’s house, and it gave her legitimacy with the people she met in New York. “I’m currently doing Cymbeline, off-Broadway.” It was off-off, but she doubted this John knew the difference. “Do you go to the theatre much?”

“I don’t. I’m not sure I get it,” he admitted, and there was a self-deprecating smile, and whether it was the smile that made him handsome or the way it showed he cared what Moira thought of him, Moira leaned in. “What’s the play? Play, right? It’s not some—”

“It’s a play. Shakespeare. It’s Cymbeline.”

“Oh, Shakespeare, very nice,” he said, and then he realized how it sounded and laughed. “Please don’t ask about my job. I don’t want you to be this embarrassed. What’s the theatre? I’d love to go.”

Moira gave him the name and address; she didn’t know the phone number, but it would be listed. He wrote them down in a leather-bound Day-Timer; she wondered why he had brought it to a party, but just as well. “Bring everyone,” she said. “Bring your girlfriend,” which was the person she assumed she’d seen earlier.

John chuckled and loosened his tie. “She’s not one for late nights.” A confirmation.

“Is that why she left? That was her, with the velvet dress? It was lovely.”

“Yes, that was her. And no, she has a big day at work tomorrow.” He hadn’t seemed to speak with great affection before, but this he said like he was showing off. He liked that his girlfriend worked; he was proud that she did it well. Of the things Moira looked for in a man, a favorable attitude toward women working was paramount; she wasn’t going to give it up. How inconvenient, that this man was so favorable about it in somebody else.

“Well,” said Moira, “do come. With someone who can stay awake past ten. It might surprise you.”

 That didn’t earn her a smile, just a frank nod. “I’m sure it will.”

“And what are we celebrating tonight?” Sharon had provided the useful information—namely, the fact that someone else was paying—but she liked John, and she wanted to know the reason for his party.

“Promotion,” he said.

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s not forever; I plan to get into business for myself within a few years. But it’s nice to be recognized. And what about you? Is acting on the stage your long-term goal?”

“Oh, I’ll need another drink to admit to any of that.”

John stood up. Moira was perplexed, even a little offended, until she realized he was walking to the bar; then she was amused, and something like smitten, which she would need to keep in check, at least for now. With most of the other people here, he was _appropriate_ , warm but almost professional. She hoped _he_ realized how much differently he was behaving with her. A couple people said goodbye as he returned with another martini. “So, Moira, what are your dreams?”

She laughed, because she had to. She ducked her head, but just a little. She wasn’t ashamed of them, but she had learned the value of acting aspirations with men—they were silly, nonthreatening. John, she had already found out tonight, wasn’t threatened by women working, and she didn’t get the impression that he found her silly. But the habit of playing her aspirations that way was ingrained. “I’d like to work in television,” she said with a laugh.

Surprise, but real interest. “Television. Not movies?”

“No, I—I mean, I’d be happy to, of course, but TV is where I’d really love to work.”

When she didn’t say anything else, he prompted it. Then someone came up to bid him goodnight, and he held a hand out to ask her to wait as he stood, polite, and thanked them for coming. “Sorry,” he said, “why TV?”

“Well, I,” she said, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to be telling him this, but she’d been a complete cliché so far, and it didn’t seem to have scared him off. “I come from a small town, you know? We didn’t even get a TV set until I was thirteen. But it just—there’s something about being in people’s houses like that, being reliable, and different, showing them the world outside. It’s silly, but  _Bewitched_ was the first thing to show me how much bigger my life could be. And I don’t think I could have stuck with any of this without Mary Tyler Moore. Mary was my first friend going it alone in the city. The life I have didn't exist around me—I couldn't have dreamed of it before I saw it on TV. I’d like to be that.”

She was blushing. Television wasn’t the sort of goal you admitted to when you worked in the theatre. But John didn’t seem to find anything wrong with it at all. “You could,” he said sincerely, and Moira wondered whether he could see her blushing in the low light. “I can see it. People would want to tune in for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 80s Johnny absolutely says ‘actress,’ not ‘actor,’ u kno it’s tru
> 
> The Mary Tyler Moore show started in 1970 and ran for seven seasons; Moira was in New York, but it was new. The show was notable at the time for depicting a single, working woman. If you like The Bold Type, give a shoutout to Mary Tyler Moore. Bewitched aired in the 60s, when Moira was in her hometown.
> 
> A weird outcome of this fic and her tv dreams is I’m like…even softer for Moira Rose? I definitely figured there was a limit to how soft you could be for Moira in all her absurdity, but you know what?? wrong


	5. 1997

John hadn’t told her where they were going for Christmas. Something about the trip, he thought, should be a surprise. But Moira, knowing how he was with gifts, had monitored the situation, and she had made sure it came out all right.

So, far too early, far too soon after the party, they were expected awake to watch the children open their stacks of gifts. John had chosen one for each child, and Moira had given an envelope of cash to each child, and then besides John’s parents and Dee Dee, the other gifts had been selected by Adelina, which probably meant they had been selected by the children first. But there were a few surprises for all of them in the opening, not that Moira was especially interested in children’s toys. The children were supposed to open the gifts one at a time, taking turns—John’s rule, born of a sentimental notion that opening the gifts should be family time—but they both tore through paper at a clip, excited or disappointed for a moment and then on to the next thing. David unwrapped ten different toys shaped like eggs on keychains, with little screens and little buttons, and Moira wasn’t sure she had seen him take such genuine pleasure in anything in months. The whole thing was entirely beyond her; she just smiled at her children when they held up some awful clothing or inane toy. She would go through their closets in a week or two and cull anything they’d regret being seen in later.

And then, finally, it was time to go. Moira hugged her distracted offspring and was free of them, John opening the car door for her and spiriting her away. Not far: since she had to be back at work in a few days, she recognized the superiority of his choice to go not to the airport but to the Peninsula Hotel. Moira adored the Peninsula: it was where they had stayed when they first came out together to Los Angeles, John to meet with contacts about video distribution and Moira for her earliest television auditions. She was sure that staying somewhere decent, looking rested, had only helped her chances. Anytime they needed a hotel in LA, they came here, and here was where they put up out-of-town visitors they wanted to impress but didn’t want to have in their home.  If it was just her and John, she’d rather be here than anywhere in Paris or Rio. Besides, the concierge, Pierre, knew them well, and they could be sure of being well-treated.

“I know it isn’t far,” John said, handing his keys off to the valet, “but no one knows we’re here,” putting his arm around her waist, “and we’ll order everything in.”

The closet in the suite was full of new silk loungewear and a single new dress—“In case you want to go out; otherwise, we’ll just take it home.” Here, too, Moira had had a hand: she’d loudly admired some of these pieces, and others must have come from the handful of stores where Moira had trusted staff to guide John in the right direction. So she could tell him with perfect honesty that they were beautiful, and she could select a babydoll and knickers and a robe to change into—sure, she was already wearing silk, but putting on her new things would be in the spirit of the vacation. She certainly wanted John’s efforts to be appreciated.

The only thing she didn’t wear in four days was the dress. She had no reason to leave the room. John could have persuaded her, had he wanted to, but he, too, was happy to stay in. Not a single person called him on business; she hadn’t brought a single script. They had cartons of drugs, boxes of toys—one of Moira’s suitcases had been filled with gifts for John—and plenty of restaurants willing to deliver if they went through Pierre. But each evening—no matter what they had taken, no matter how they had exhausted themselves during the day—John suggested that they call the children. She couldn’t imagine what any of them would have to say: she certainly wasn’t going to report on how they were spending their time. But John would call the house and ask for David and Alexis, and he’d ask them a few questions, easily, and then he’d offer the phone to her. She felt the expectation to take it; she felt how strange, even awful, he’d have found her if she refused. And she’d say, “Hello, children,” and they on the speakerphone would say hello, and she would ask something asinine: Have you been behaving, have you tried out any more of your Christmas gifts, what have you done today? They answered in monosyllables, and she knew they couldn’t have been like this with John, not entirely, and they said just enough to each other that they could say good night. Those few minutes every day, from the time John suggested a phone call until the time she hung up, were the only minutes when she had any care in the world.

On the third day, anticipating what was to come, she took a bath when she and John had finished with dinner. He would call the children, she thought, and then he would come to her. But he indicated the phone by the bathtub, and it turned out she hadn’t managed to free herself at all.

John was attentive enough. He knew she didn’t have his facility on the telephone, or with the children, and he smiled when she agreed to talk to them. She got a soft kiss after each phone call, and John said something neutral—“Sounds like they’re doing all right”—and brought her a pill, and all his attention was hers again. The third night, he placed a tab on her tongue and a glass of orange juice in her hand and slid into the bathtub behind her. He’d taken something himself, she’d watched him, but it didn’t appear to have kicked in just yet. He pulled warm water up onto her shoulders and left his hands there. “This was a good idea.”

She adjusted so her head was comfortable on his shoulder, her nose in his neck. “And beautifully executed, Mr. Rose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tamagotchis were released in 1997 in the US. (Furbies, which I also considered, weren’t released until 1998. I might have figured David and Alexis got, like, advanced-release Furbies, but they weren’t out until the holiday season, so to get them a year early would be very advance. So Alexis was the same age when she got her back tattoo as she was when Furbies came out, I guess. Odds that Alexis was too cool for Furby but David desperately wanted one?)
> 
> The Peninsula Hotel in LA is a real place in Beverly Hills. (It’s a chain; the flagship hotel is in Hong Kong, hence the name. The bakery at the one in Chicago serves wildly expensive but excellent croissants.) I did not, however, do research into the name/s of their concierge/s in 1997.
> 
> If you, like me and @deathbysandblk, are very concerned about them drinking orange juice while doing drugs: people do drink orange juice with ecstasy because they think it strengthens the effects, according to various questionable websites of the Quora and Yahoo! Answers variety. Don’t die, Moira.


	6. 2018

There was a whole cluster of people on the field beside the motel when Moira returned from council, with tables and something resembling decorations. It was really rather charming—perhaps David had put it together. She had no idea of the occasion, and she wondered briefly whether she had forgotten a birthday. But no, David’s birthday was in July, and they had just celebrated John’s. No one at the motel had anniversaries but her. Perhaps it was a town occasion, like the parade they threw every Thanksgiving that marched up the main street for all of ten minutes. She hadn’t been informed of any such festival before, but in previous years, they might have assumed she had no interest. They wouldn’t have been wrong, to be sure.

John was among the crowd, and he reached out to escort her over.

“I’m sorry I can’t take you to Bosnia,” he said. “I tried to find a way, but it just wasn’t practical. But I thought you should have some kind of sendoff.”

Surely all the air hadn’t rushed from the room: they were outdoors, with miles and miles of air. But that was the only way she could be certain. Moira was aware that it had taken her a moment to collect herself, but she presented the shock as surprise. John should have been able to tell the difference, but after all the effort he’d gone to, she hoped he would be convinced.

It was one thing to be going away alone. With anyone but John, she’d acted impervious to any possible trouble, and she’d carried it off. It would be more than worth the effort of adjustment to be working again—and more than that, to have new work, drawing eyes, reminding the public and the studios that Moira Rose was not only alive but still capable. With everything this film could be, Moira could manage a solitary voyage across the Atlantic. There was no doubt of John’s devotion: if he could have joined her, he would.

No, though she feigned great pleasure at the effort John had mustered, she was sick with something closer to home. Her husband had thought of this gathering as a gift. To be sure, the pomp was adequate to a day of rural strawberry-picking, or the graduation festivities of an unloved child. But she had been very clear with John, a few years ago, about her feelings on surprise parties. And she had been very clear—hadn’t she?—about her feelings on this town and its people. She was attending an event with Roland, and she was supposed to feel celebrated.

She made the appropriate greetings with all necessary civility, even a smidgen of warmth. David and Alexis had deigned to appear, and she refrained from chastising them for their father’s choices. She stayed as long as might be required of a guest of honor who felt slightly ill, and then she made her excuses—must be well-rested, flying in the morning—and took her leave. John would see through it, she was sure, would realize she was upset and follow her back to the room.

But it was some time before John appeared. He was always a good host. She wished he wouldn’t be. She had donned her sleepwear, though it could scarcely be seven o’clock, and was lying under the blankets with a book she couldn’t summon the courage to read.

John sat by her feet. “Are you all right, Moira?”

No. “I’m perfectly well, John.” She sat up, to prove it.

“I know I shouldn’t have surprised you.”

“Oh, darling, I know things have changed since I made that request.” She tried to sound bitter, though she wasn’t, at this moment. She should have been angry, but all she felt was grief. If _John_ had abandoned the pursuit of a life beyond this town, what hope was there for her?

“But you didn’t like the party.”

“I don’t like worrying that as a family, we’ve lost our way.”

John took her hand. “We’ve never been closer as a family. You talked to Alexis for ten whole minutes yesterday.”

“No, John, that’s not what I mean.”

He waited, perfectly attentive.

“Doesn’t a celebration—in this town—with the people we know here, and the fruits of our son’s labor here—doesn’t it worry you a little?”

“Moira, celebrating you has never worried me.”

It wasn’t the time. “I’m afraid we’re forgetting that our real intention is to leave this place.”

John looked at the bedspread. He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. “Well,” he said, “we’re here now.” He kissed the hand and met her eyes. “I’m going to celebrate you wherever we are.”

It wasn’t what she wanted. She lay back down. Not angrily, just—she lay back down. Resigned.

“Would you like me to join you?”

“Oh, John, it’s far too early to come to bed.”

“I know,” he said. “Would you like me to join you?”

Moira turned on her side to make room behind her, and after a few moments of shuffling that she couldn’t see, John slid in and put an arm over her waist.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you,” he murmured.

She took his hand. “It won’t be long.” It pained her, that there wasn’t more work. John was the only thing here to miss. Well, and there was David, but he’d manage. That is—Pat would manage, and the outcome would be the same.

“Not for you. It’ll fly by.” He pressed his lips to the back of her neck. “I’m so proud.”

And he was. John didn’t worry about the film’s potential. He may have been sidetracked in his own ventures, but he’d always supported her work.


	7. 1980

More people were bidding John good night, enough that Moira could see they’d be alone soon if John allowed it. While Adam—Alex?—Evan?—shook John’s hand, Sharon asked Moira whether she’d like to leave together. But Sharon didn’t live in Brooklyn; there would be no benefit to it but the appearances. “I think I’ll chance it,” Moira told her.

John sat back down. “You know,” he said—“tell me if this is too much, but I know a few people in TV. Not big-time, only New York people. But I could put you in touch. Give them your number. Or take them to your show—I don’t know how people in your business go about things. But I’m happy to make an introduction.”

It was almost certainly too much—they had only just met. But Moira knew better than to turn down an offer like this. “That’s so kind,” she said. “I’d love that.”

John gave a genuine smile at that. Maybe he was one of those people who liked to help. Moira wasn’t, but he seemed a little bit that way. And then it turned out that he’d better have her phone number, in case they wanted it, and the Day-Timer came out again. and even then, she was sure this wasn’t an elaborate ploy. He’d make the time to pass the number along. But when the girlfriend was gone, he’d use it himself, too.

Putting the planner away, John seemed to realize for the first time that they had talked their way to the end of the party. “Sharon left without you?”

Moira waved it off, as though to say, _That Sharon, what can you expect_. “She must have found a better offer.”

“Let me drive you home.”

That had been the point, of course. “It’s not too much trouble?” she asked, knowing fully well it wouldn’t be.

“I’d feel more comfortable, this time of night.”

“All right then.” She took his arm.

What she hadn’t expected was to find that John was actually driving—she’d expected a taxi, not a man with a car of his own that he parked around Manhattan. Perhaps he didn’t live here, she worried briefly. But he’d promised to come to her show. He had his promotion party here. She slid into the front seat when he opened the door and gave him Sharon’s address. She was hardly about to let him drive her out to Brooklyn, see the crumbling brick and the sort of people on the street at this hour where she really lived. She’d have to make some self-deprecating joke about forgetting her keys while she waited for Sharon to buzz her in—thank heavens she didn’t have a doorman. That she could manage. She hoped he hadn’t been to Sharon’s before.

There was quiet between them in the car. This wasn’t really late—Moira wouldn’t even be able to sleep for another few hours—but she’d hardly been alone in a car with someone since she came to the city. It really did close them off. She’d have reached for his hand, but there was still the girlfriend. He’d seek her out again, she knew it. If nothing else, he’d promised to come to her show, and he didn’t seem like the type to go back on a promise. So she asked whether he’d always lived here, not to find out but to hear him speak; the city, in this car, was quiet, and so was his voice.

He didn’t appear to recognize Sharon’s building, when they arrived, and he opened her door to let her out of the car, and he didn’t leave until she was in the building. Moira would regret this in the morning, when she had to wake up early to get all the way home to change; maybe she’d borrow something and go to work from here.

 

“All right,” said Sharon, when she got up the stairs, “You _have_ to tell me why you’re here.”

“Well, I couldn’t let him see where I _live_.”

“And _him_ is Johnny?—Are you staying?”

“I will if it’s all right, but I can certainly go home. He introduced himself as John, though, and I have to say I like that much better.”

“You’re welcome to the couch. I’ll get you a blanket and a towel. And—something to sleep in.”

Moira laughed, looking down at her dress. “Your couch will be more comfortable than my bed.”

“He didn’t tell you about his girlfriend?”

Moira tossed her jacket dramatically over the back of the couch, the only furniture in the room. “I know about the girlfriend. But he sure didn’t talk about her much. He’ll come around.”

“Damn,” said Sharon. “Confident.”

“We _connected_.”

“Connected, like?”

“Sharon! He was hosting a party! Nothing like _that_.”

“Well, I’m for you. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with her, but she’s not much fun.”

“Come on, there must be _something_ wrong with her.”

Sharon laughed and tossed her a shirt and a pair of shorts; Moira pulled her dress off over her head to put them on. “I don’t really know her. She doesn’t come out much. But I’m sure he’ll see very soon how much better he could have it.”

Moira laughed a little. “Well, thanks for the invite,” she said. “And sorry in advance for...pining.”

“It’s that bad, huh?”

“Not bad,” said Moira. “It’s good. It’s going to work out. I’ll just have to wait.”


End file.
